


Seeing the World

by whitchry9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aspie!Sherlock likely, BAMF John, Baby Watson, Crime Solving, Drabbles, Drugs, F/M, Gen, Introspection, M/M, Murder, Organs, Post Season 3, Season 3, Sherlock loves the heart, Stream of Consciousness, hints at drugs use, mentions of Reichenbach, no clear timeline, random stuff, talks about death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-21 22:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 5,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock sees the world differently. Differently from everyone else... including John. But John sees it a bit differently too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Life

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Образ мышления (Seeing the world)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7274497) by [EugeniaB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EugeniaB/pseuds/EugeniaB)



Sherlock digests the world, breaks it down into amino acids and molecules like he does to the food he rarely eats. It makes sense that way, and he can do that with anything, no matter how tough it may be to chew on.

He wonders why other people can't swallow the mushy food they're spoon fed, wonders why he's got to be the one to predigest it and throw it up for them to comprehend (like some of those bats or animals with pouches), wonders why he can take on an animal carcass while others are still processing simple sugars.

It's a sad sad life.

 

It's all bits of broken glass, spinning this way and that in the sunlight, glittering and throwing their light everywhere.

They grate in his skin, biting and scratching until his nerves are rubbed raw, and he feels so much that there is no more to feel. (Too many neurons all firing at once, can't keep going, can't, can't...)

He wonders belatedly why there are tiny bits of glass everywhere, but his brain is too busy focusing on the irksome grating feeling to process much of anything else.


	2. Partners

Puzzle pieces are so cliche, and Sherlock doesn't want to think of himself and John like that. Besides, whoever heard of a puzzle with two pieces? (And puzzle pieces come apart, can be attempted to fit together with another, John had done that before, he wasn't patient enough for puzzles and tried to pound them in place. Sherlock felt like other people had done that to him before. Perhaps not that bad?...)

No, it was more like... Sherlock didn't even know. Yin and yang? Left and right ventricles? Ventricles and atriums? Thymine and Adenine? Guanine and Cytosine?

It was more than that though. It was like they were parts of each other, couldn't be split.

DNA? No, DNA splits and replicates, not at all accurate.

 

Fire and ice, water and air, land and sea. There can't be one without the other. There is no light without the dark. No stars without the nighttime sky. (He can still appreciate it.)

It's simply a unit. They are a unit. Sherlock and John. Holmes and Watson.

Simply.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock likes the dark and John likes the light.

 

John spent so much time in the sun in Afghanistan he had to learn to like it. It was there constantly, beating down on him, beating him, making him want to crawl out of his skin and leave it behind just so he could feel something other than the burn. He grew used to it. Eventually began to welcome it.

When he got shot, he was so, so cold. Shock, he supposed. But it was sunny, and as he lay on his back, bleeding into the sand, sand, sand everywhere, he closed his eyes and felt the sun on his face, warm and inviting. If he was going to die, it wasn't such a bad thing to be feeling at the end.

_Please god let me live._

 

Sherlock hid away in the dark, the shadows, memories of his drugged days waiting there in the wings. Sherlock didn't know the hours he spent in a darkened flat (and he knows practically everything) or a shadowy alley, or slum somewhere, or god knows where but it was dark and safe enough for him to escape. And the darkness was kind to his pale skin, and sometimes when he went into the sun, those rare occasions, it burned and hurt and he winced from the absolute brightness of it all. He hid away in the dark where he could not see the holes in his arms or the tracks he could trace up and down with his finger. (He could do that in the dark, but the feel was comforting, and the sight was not.)

 

Sherlock thrived in the dark, and John grew in the light.  


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock saw the world in music, and John in danger.

 

Sherlock saw the individual notes, how they all fit together, stacked up, made a melody, a fantastic, gorgeous harmony. Other people were cacophonous, ruining the perfection that he could hear when everything fit together. (No, that bit doesn't matter, can't you hear how _wrong_ it makes everything? Stupid, stupid, tone deaf people.) But when that perfect note reached the climax, all the parts and pieces fit together to make _music_ his mind would sing and all would be well.

 

John saw threats around every corner, sticking out in plain sight. Danger that was poorly disguised, or not at all. Sometimes it was clever, he had to give it that. Sometimes it was only after a motion, or a sound, that he realized something was not right. But he always saw it.

 _(Except once,_ his brain hisses at him, but that was not his fault, there were so many dangers at once that he couldn't possibly be blamed for missing one... _even if that was the one that finally got you..._ Never again, he promised himself. Once. No more.)

John Watson saw danger painted around the streets and corners of London and spent his time steering Sherlock not quite exactly at him, perhaps round back so they could sneak up on it.

He promised himself _never again._

Because he spotted danger while Sherlock ran around collecting bits of melodies.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock saw patterns where John saw emotions.

 

The patterns were always there, whether you saw them or not, whether you were looking or not. They were _always_ there. The world runs on them. They were everywhere. Predicting human behaviour, animal behaviour, the entire _universe._ Such simple patterns make such complex things and no one else could see them, not even John, who was really quite clever, at least compared to most. But John didn't have it. Couldn't do it.

 

John saw how people thought, driven by emotions. The only thing Sherlock couldn't see. (“But that was ages ago, why would she still be upset?” didn't he say...)

John could untangle those feelings then thread them up again if he chose to. Weave them into something different, pull on them, _manipulate them._ He was much too kind to, but the knowledge was always there in the back of his head that he would always have something Sherlock could not do.

 

Sherlock and John didn't know that they were seeing the same things, just calling them different names.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock and John killed people.

 

_(“You wanna remember Sherlock, I was a soldier. I killed people.”)_

And he did. It was an awful thing, killing another person. It was exhilarating and terrifying and an awful awful thing to do. The first time was the worst.

It doesn't matter who it was. An enemy. They're still a person. And he hated that it was a rush

 

Sherlock was a detective, it was sort of an occupational hazard.

It was part of the job description (or it would be if there was a job description, which there was not, because he was the only one in the world.)

 

Sherlock and John both killed people. They both watched people die.

 

People thought Sherlock was a machine, but that's not true. _(We both know that...)_ He never told anyone what happened when he first watched someone die. He didn't even kill him, wasn't a criminal, a culprit, or even a suspect. But he watched him die and it hurt more than he'd thought possible.

 

For John it was in his job description. Sometimes people died. _(“That's what people DO!”)_ No matter what he did, even if he laid his healing hands on them, stitched them up, made the blood stop coming out, fixed the bone and put it back in place, stopped the pain. Sometimes they still died.

He hated when there was nothing left for him to do but watch.

 

Watching people die broke them.  


	7. Chapter 7

 Black and white. Shades of grey.

Crime is black and white. Guilt is grey.

Sherlock sees the truth. Usually it leads to black and white, convictions. But sometimes it's grey. Then he doesn't know what to do. He both hated and loved those. Sticky things, where what was right and what was _right_ contradicted each other. He usually trusted John for help in those situations.

John. A soldier with strong moral principles. (Evident by the fact that he waited to shoot the cabbie until Sherlock was in immediate danger.) Had been to war. Killed people. (“You wanna remember, Sherlock: I was a soldier.I killed people.”)

Seemed fine about the whole thing; told everyone he was fine, didn't want to talk about it, smiled. But Sherlock could tell he wasn't. Knew that every time he took a life, even if it was an awful one, like the cabbie's or the rapist they'd been tracking for weeks, that John had to shoot in the end.

He claimed he was fine. Sherlock could see six things that proved he wasn't.

The decision was easy. Living with it, that was what was hard.


	8. Chapter 8

 Sherlock spells out secrets using the periodic table.

If anyone were to look, they'd only see formulas, chemicals, elements, scrawled out in Sherlock's characteristic writing. Nothing out of the ordinary there. But Sherlock spelled out secrets, things he wanted to keep hidden, but remember. Things he deleted, but didn't want gone forever.

So he used science to cover up the things that mattered the most.

_(Like how he felt about John...)_

 

53

3-53 8 23 99-16

1 53 42-8

(5 92 22-53

7 8 43-6

53 7

43-6 1 33-16 90-1

74 79-92 39)

 

Yes. So he deleted it, and hid the paper away in a box of files, all containing some sort of chemistry or another, and went on with his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It does actually spell something, if you'd care to try.


	9. Chapter 9

 Sherlock uses science to explain how he feels.

Thankfully, John has a background in science.

Sadly, John does not understand what Sherlock is doing.

And he fails. Every. Time.

_John we're like oxygen atoms. We're a molecule. O2. Or hydrogen, or fluorine, or bromine, or iodine, or nitrogen, or chlorine atoms._

_Paired. Not stable alone..._

 

Yet every time Sherlock tried to express this to John, he was greeted only with a strange look, and Sherlock soon gave up on trying to explain that way.

He just couldn't see...


	10. Chapter 10

 Where John needed rest, a chance to be calm, to let his brain sleep, Sherlock needed stimulation, something for his brain to grab on to like a dog with a chew toy (quite literally in fact)...

 

If his brain had nothing to do, it would spin in circles until it burnt itself out, short circuited, like how a stomach with nothing to eat will digest itself (he couldn't recall if that was true, or if he wanted to look into that? TOO MUCH).

Oh, how he envied John, who'd fallen asleep on the couch, so peaceful. It was hateful. His brain just shut off and everything was well and good in his world. No racing tearing thoughts that threatened to rip him to pieces if he didn't pay attention to them at that exact moment, all at once.

But the drugs... _oh the drugs..._ they silenced everything. _Everything._ God, it was the only time in his life he'd been able to stop and breathe. As long as he could remember, his brain had always been like this, tearing itself apart. And then it just _stopped._ And it was fantastic.


	11. Chapter 11

 Sherlock could weave theories out of the air, tying together a thousand invisible threads until they turned into something visible with the naked eye, even though they'd been there all along.

From random bits of thread and fluff, little strings that had fallen off of clothes, Sherlock wove tapestries. Intricate scenes were made from the tiniest bits of nothing.

_It was brilliant._


	12. Chapter 12

 They were magicians.

Sherlock in the art of deception, disguise. That man could twist his face into every single expression ever known to man, and yet was incapable of recognizing more than five. He could cry on cue, pull emotions out of a hat like rabbits, rage and sorrow coming just as easily as a bunny with a white tail. He could spin secrets just as easily as he could unravel them, leaving people to wonder what was real. _Especially John._

John was the assistant in the fancy dress, standing by, pointing to things, handing Sherlock his tools, and providing a distraction as well as a subject.

No one suspected the small man. No one suspected the one about to be cut in half, never expected they'd be the one to pull the gun or leap on you from behind.

They made a good team. They performed magic and miracles. _Really, what's the difference?_


	13. Chapter 13

 It was a big scary world out there. And they didn't exercise proper precautions, no they ran headfirst into danger, pulling bullets towards them like some sort of mysterious magnets, attracting trouble like black rain clouds.

Occasionally, on one of the few nights John would make it to bed at a reasonable hour and, unable to sleep, would stare into the darkness and wonder why they did it. Fretted about keeping Sherlock safe. _Worried._ Worried about the day that he wouldn't be able to grab his sleeve in time to prevent him being shot, when he wouldn't be there to put pressure on a wound and call an ambulance, when he wouldn't be there on danger nights when Sherlock went madly searching through the flat. Worried about the day he would be there and Sherlock would still...

It made his heart clench, and sleep elude him.

Thankfully, those nights were few and far between, because they were often out doing those things that John worried so much about. There was only time for him to fall in bed and pass out, shoes still on his feet. He preferred those nights.

 

Sherlock wasn't immune to worry, no matter how many others may have thought that.

And with his brain that was always gogogo he did not have the luxury of escaping in sleep like John did. Both a blessing and a curse. _Aren't most things?_ His worries were slightly different. He feared for the day that his recklessness would get himself or John killed. He wasn't sure what would be worse, losing John or knowing John would be left behind. (Thinking about that made him feel something akin to a heart attack, but every time he got John's stethoscope, his heart was fine. Puzzling.) Worried John would leave, that Sherlock would scare him away like he did to everyone else, afraid that he may start to feel something towards John (not like that) and even more terrified that he _already_ _did._ (Don't be silly, of course he doesn't, simply palpitations, perhaps he does need to eat, maybe his electrolytes are out of balance.) Worried John would do something to upset the perfect and precarious balance that was his world, sending it crashing down into pieces that could never fit together again.

Went into his mind palace, deposited them in the worry room, lined with lead, and bolted the door behind him.  


	14. Chapter 14

 They both fixed things, just in different ways.

 

John preferred the more conventional, physical fixing, sewing up wounds, administering medication, things he could touch and feel. He enjoyed being able to see what he'd accomplished, neatly stitched up lacerations that faded to faint scars, or people who'd been on the brink of death, pushed there by blood loss or illness, brought back to thrive. He could watch the process of repair and know that he had a hand in that.

 

Sherlock's way of fixing things wasn't quite so obvious. People wouldn't point to him and say _“That's the man who fixed me,”_ not like they did with John, but it seemed everywhere Sherlock went, someone recognized him. _“He saved my reputation. He kept me from going to jail.”_ It was different, but no less impressive. Sherlock had saved countless lives in indirect ways, not so much laying his hands on them and healing them, but stopping the pain before it began, saving countless people by pulling killers and rapists off the streets with his brilliant and mad talents.

 

Both noble pursuits, and yet, both wished they could do what the other did.


	15. Chapter 15

Moriarty wasn't the only spider. Sherlock was like a spider, but he wasn't a black widow like the man he loathed. But he had a web, his homeless network, and he could make people dance if he so desired, pulling Molly's strings and manipulating grieving widows. The one major difference was that he never caught prey in his net to torture and eat, only to clean the world of the horrors it possessed.

 

Anderson, oh Anderson had to be an ant. Mindless, a drone, capable of only the most menial tasks, and barely them at that.

Sherlock wasn't sure what John was. Perhaps a caterpillar who only transformed in Sherlock's eyes.

Or perhaps, one of those butterflies that looked like a moth, tricking people except those who were experts.

Sherlock was most definitely an expert in the study of John.

 

Mycroft, he decided, was the boot overhead that threatened to stomp on them all, just because he could.

 


	16. Chapter 16

Sometimes, the end of days seemed remarkably close.

 

And other times, it seemed like they were untouchable, immortal, on top of the world.

 

Some days they were just _that_ close to death, a snap of the fingers and they were done for.

Some days it was barely visible on the horizon as they walked, laughing, high on adrenaline and life, back to the flat together, bruises and cuts not aching until the next morning. Those days they felt like they'd soar if they leapt off a bridge, wings suddenly appearing from their backs, opening up wide and flapping in the breeze, carrying them to far off lands.

And other days, days that were so near the end they could have reached out and touched it, those days they felt like they'd drown in the bathtub with their leaden limbs weighing them down. No wingspan or amount of thrust could carry them through the air on those days, simply because the laws of physics wouldn't allow it.

Perhaps the world sensed how close they were to the end, and didn't want to spent time on them anymore.

And yet, they always seemed to make it through those days, even though they were so close to the end that they were practically falling into it, they still made it to the next.

Until, of course, they didn't.

 


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock never possessed the necessary skills for participating in sports. Being coordination and gross motor control. Fine motor control was a different story, he'd dissected dead frogs before the age of ten (and despite what people may have thought, he did not kill them).

His history with exercise even was hit and miss, mostly involving running and climbing things after older boys decided they'd heard enough. He learned to fight too, but didn't see that as a sport, just more of a necessity for life.

And yet every time, during the midst of a fight with yet another criminal, he couldn't help but feel he was rather good at it.

 

John loved the thrill that went along with winning. He'd played rugby before, when he was young and at uni and felt like he was invincible until the hangover hit him the morning after they'd won a game and gone out for celebratory drinks. He loved the adrenaline rush, the act of sweaty men mobbing each other after they won, the friendships that could only be formed on a muddy field.

Of course, he went to Afghanistan, and that was a whole different kind of sport.

And then he came back, broken and damaged, and there was no thought of rugby, or even running for that matter.

Sherlock changed all of that, creating his own sport along with his own job title, the stakes higher than in a rugby match, sometimes bordering on life and death rather than a match point.

He loved it, nonetheless.  


	18. Chapter 18

The heart, Sherlock thinks, is quite a miraculous organ.

(In terms of his favourite, that would be the brain, because of the many mysteries it held, the secrets that they had yet to discover, the journey it would take them on. But the heart was another story entirely.)

The heart was elegant. If you really thought about it, there was this organ in your chest that _never stopped._ Every single day for your entire life, it just beats away. Relentlessly, tirelessly, without reward, it just doesn't stop.

(Until one day it does, but by then it usually deserves a little rest, because honestly, it's worked so hard for so long, and it's just  _done._ )

 

Sherlock would fall asleep with John's stethoscope pressed to his chest, listening to the marvel that was the human body, simply awed that his heart wouldn't quit. He couldn't tell it to stop, or even pause. It just kept going.

It was a lullaby that soothed him to sleep after days of being awake for cases and strung out on nicotine, adrenaline, and bad coffee.

 


	19. Chapter 19

 Sherlock would very much like to examine John's brain.

It's rather unfortunate that he can't, simply because John is still using it. And to do so would require either surgery, or killing John, and one of those is out of the question, and the other involves too many risks that Sherlock would rather not think about, let alone do.

 

Perhaps, if John dies first (perish the thought) and Sherlock is still sane enough to do it, he could examine it post mortem.

But Sherlock plans to not live to that age, not where they'd get old, _grow_ old together. Together, yes, but not old.

Sherlock can't imagine what it would be like for him to get old.

He's fairly certain he'll die before Mrs Hudson. God, he hopes he does.

_(This is why we don't make friends, because caring hurts when everyone else is going to die, they will all die and leave you alone, this is why we don't make friends, don't have friends, just one.)_

Leave a nice corpse, or whatever the saying was.

(Of course he'd probably die from some sort of trauma, and therefore is likely to not be that pretty, but at least he won't have wrinkles, and that's the thing he's really talking about. Makeup can do wonders for broken bones and bruises, but there's no hiding wrinkles on a dead body.)

 

He'd just prefer to go out, guns blazing, John at his side, than to waste away in a bed from something as mundane as cancer, having already lost anyone he ever cared about. (Not that he did caring. Caring is not an advantage.)

 

He suspects John would not be amused to know he was thinking this, but the thought of John dying first is so awful that Sherlock's arm itches for the drugs.

So he doesn't. Think about it that is. (Or drugs.)

Presses forward, lives to keep John alive.

Dies to keep John alive.


	20. Chapter 20

John Watson was in love with the idea of Sherlock Holmes.

 

But, and he had to make this clear since no one seemed to understand, he was not in love _with_ Sherlock Holmes.

Merely the idea of him.

 

John wasn't clear on how that worked either, so if anyone ever asked him to explain it, he'd probably have just stood there, and shrugged his shoulders.

Which was one of the reasons why he never told anyone.

 

That and because it was Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

 

But he loved the way that prat could untangled threads of crime, connecting things that John hadn't even seen before Sherlock pointed out how they all fit together to form a picture.

It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

So sue him if he fell in love with that.

 

It certainly wasn't with the man, since he was nearly intolerable, leaving toast crumbs in the couch on the rare chance he ate, making chemical messes at all hours (for the sake of science), and tormenting his violin when all John wanted to do was sleep.

John certainly wasn't in love with that.

 

Of course, there couldn't be one without the other.

So John loved the idea of the man, but not the man himself, and he certainly didn't tell anyone, because no one else would understand.

 

(Except perhaps Sherlock, but that was an entirely different story.)

 


	21. Chapter 21

 The world is unbearably heavy, and yet, they both try to shoulder it.

Sure, it may break them before long, but for the time being, they both soldier on (one actually a soldier, one not, but perhaps the most stubborn man who ever lived), even while cracking under the strain.

 

If fact, they're so stubborn that even if they visibly cracked under the strain, their skin splitting open and leaking earth and moss and pebbles, they'd still claim they were fine.

And by god, they'd be so convincing that you'd believe them, believe that they were simply watering the newly sown seeds and soil that had spilled from their skin with the water from their eyes.

(No one points out that salt water isn't any good for plants.)

 

They just push on and on and on until all the seeds have fallen out and there is no more water to nourish them.

At which point they themselves fall and offer up what's left of their skin as home.

 

Even then, they don't admit they need help.

(But they always were such idiots.)


	22. Chapter 22

 John didn't know either of their names.

The two people he loved most in the world, and he didn't know either of their names.

 

At least Sherlock wasn't a lie, not completely. John wondered why he'd chosen Sherlock over William.

Perhaps it was because his brother had a unique name, and Sherlock wanted to be like him. Maybe Sherlock liked the way it sounded, maybe he liked the way the letters looked when he learned to spell it.

He could ask, but he probably doesn't want to know. Sometimes wondering is better.

 

* * *

 

 

But his wife... _his wife._

 

She'd lied _so much._ She wasn't Mary Morstan. Mary had died at birth.

(John wondered if the same fate would befit his Mary, but didn't want to think about it, because _unborn child_ and all that.)

AGRA. How could he have known that those four letters could tear his whole life apart?

 

Why had she chosen Mary? Was it simply out of convenience, or was there something else driving her choice? There were any numbers of identities she could have stolen, so why did it have to be Mary.

 

He could ask, but he probably doesn't want to know. Sometimes the truth can't be beared.


	23. Chapter 23

 Babies are magical things.

 

Sherlock tries not to think about the mechanics of baby making. He knows them, obviously, but this is _John,_ and he doesn't want to think about that, thank you very much. He makes pedigree charts in secret, which is hard when you don't know the mother's history, but he just wants to make sure the baby will be okay, for John's sake.

It's always for John's sake.

 

He calculates probabilities of the baby being stubborn (99%), of having blonde hair (likely, but he can't help but hope it's darker than that, for no personal reason at all, nope), whether it'll be a boy or a girl (annoyingly stuck at 50%, can't they just get a scan done already?), and how good of parents John and Mary will be. _Fantastic._

 

He youtubes how to do nappies and those tiny buttons on their sleepers. He researches what not to do with babies, and he thinks it's awful that people have to be told _not_ to shake their baby. He doesn't get it. This tiny miracle that you formed from nothing (not nothing, of course, he knows that), and after bringing it into the world, you go and do something like that. He tries not to think about it, because John took his gun away, and he can no longer shoot at walls.

 

He researches supplements for Mary, and what foods she should eat, and what ones she really shouldn't, and basically, he's an expert.

 

So why doesn't he feel any more at ease?

 

* * *

 

 

John tries his best to not remember all the statistics that he learned when he did his OB rotation. He tries not to think about miscarriages and birth defects and congenital anomalies and genetic disorders.

 

Instead he spends his time focused on their current child, who doesn't understand why a mobile can't have models of body parts on it, because it's obviously more interesting than the solar system.

 

He focuses on the sound of the heartbeat from the ultrasound, whooshing along at a steady pace. (They got a recording, and some nights he'll listen to it if he can't sleep. He's going to need the sleep once the baby gets here.)

 

* * *

 

 

Mary is generally the best between the three of them about the whole thing.

She doesn't panic. She craves pickles and ice cream, sometimes both at the same time. She sends John on ridiculous midnight runs to Tesco's, because Sherlock obviously can't go on his own.

 

But then she has been through hell and back, possibly more than once, or maybe even worse. They can't know.

So surely pregnancy is just another mission for her.

(John doesn't want to think about it that way, Sherlock doesn't like to. So they don't.)

 

* * *

 

 

Instead they discuss names and clothes and the miracle of life, and when the day arrives, Sherlock is third to hold her, and he falls in love, instantly. Head over heels for the little girl with blue eyes and blonde hair and ten fingers and ten toes and is such a marvel that Sherlock might just believe in intelligent design if it wasn't so ridiculous. (And doesn't that say something, that he'd wonder, just for her.)

He's smitten by a 7 pound, 11 ounce bundle of joy.

(No one ever believed he was a sociopath anyway.)


	24. Chapter 24

 Sometimes they dream of the people they couldn't save.

 

John, as a doctor, and Sherlock in those two years gone. (More than just those two years, of course, because people died before he did, and they'll continue to die even now, but those two years sort of overshadow everything else.)

 

John dreams of blood and surgical errors, nicks of arteries and uncontrollable bleeding. He dreams of hurried surgeries, splintered bones, torn flesh, and screaming.

 

Sherlock dreams of the smell of gunpowder, how it felt the first time he snapped a neck, what it's like to hold his hands to someone's throat until the struggle left them. He dreams of the torture, of metal pipes colliding with skin, the smell of burnt hair. He dreams of running away from all the things he couldn't fix.

 

Sometimes John dreams of shooting the cabbie. Not often, because he doesn't regret it, not really. He would say he does, because that's what people are supposed to feel, regret at taking a life, but he doesn't. But sometimes he dreams of shooting the cabbie, but he misses, shooting Sherlock instead, getting lost in the buildings trying to find his way to him, but being too late.

 

Sometimes Sherlock dreams of his fall. When it doesn't go as planned, where he falls, but isn't caught, where there is nothing between him and the unforgiving concrete. But that's not the part of the dream that he dreads. Because he knows you're supposed to wake up when you fall, but he doesn't, he dreams of falling and it doesn't end there, but it continues with him lying on the pavement, unable to move or speak, and John comes rushing over to him, only to be taken out by the sniper from above. In his dream, John falls to the pavement next to him, eyes open and empty, a pool of blood forming around his head. And Sherlock can't do anything but watch, unable to move.

 

Mostly they dream of the past, and things that did actually happen. Neither of them are sure which is worse.

 

Because it's one thing for your mind to invent horrors that creep into your dreams, and it's another to already have those horrors inside of you as memories.


	25. Chapter 25

 Death is beautiful and elegant on anyone but John. Never John.

On John, death is ugly and horrific and the simple thought of it makes Sherlock sick.

 

Sherlock deals in death. He speaks death fluently, the horrific way people die doesn't make him so much as blink, only gaping in awe. He's seen everything that he thought possible, all the ways of death, all the horribly fascinating ways a person can cease to exist.

The exception, of course, is John Watson.

 

Death on John, even thinking about it, would be awful and wrong and the juxtaposition of it all hurts his mind and if he ever saw it he fears his eyes would bleed.

Death would not suit John. Some people thrived in death, their death being the most exciting thing about them (Sherlock thinks about the case of the man who looked like he was horribly, violently murdered, when it was actually a suicide, made to look like a murder), but not John.

Sherlock would do anything to make sure he didn't have to see that. Because it would be the last thing he'd see.

 

Sherlock loves death. He doesn't like that people dies, but he loves the story that their death tells him. The position of their body tells him

The muscles that are in rigor tell Sherlock how they lived, their jewellery tells the story of their marriage, their family, their habits. Lividity tells him the position they were in when they died, if they were moved. The clean cut of a scalpel can reveal hidden injuries, expose tendons and bones that had never before seen the light of day.

Death is a masterpiece, a symphony, an opera in a language only he can understand, a language only he can speak and understand and interpret.

It tells him a story, and with that story, Sherlock unravels death, breaks it down to nothing more than actions and methods and motives. Because in the end, the story of everyone's death is the same, and yet, so different.

 

But he never wants to hear the story that John's death tells him, as long as he lives.


	26. Chapter 26

 Sometimes Sherlock thinks things that are so incredibly important, so urgent with their meaning, that he just wants to bear open his chest and carve them onto his still beating heart to keep them with him forever.

But that sort of surgery can't be done in the flat, and no one else would ever let him, so he doesn't.

He thinks about carving them into his skin instead, but he doesn't want everyone to know them, and they would, because there were so many brilliant thoughts that his skin would be covered in scars spelling them out. The same went for tattoos and pens and ink.

He didn't want to have to share.

 

(But sometimes he considered John worthy. It was everyone else he didn't care for.)

 

He never tells John about these thoughts, because he's fairly certain he'd be sectioned, and John wouldn't understand.

 

But how different were scars from tattoos, really?


End file.
